After the Fire (3 page)

‘Did any of you see what happened?’ Daggett asked. Small shook his head, while Silas Gunn spread his hands.

‘Nothing happened, master,’ he answered in a bewildered voice. ‘One moment he’s taking a drink, then he jerks a bit, drops his mug and keels over. No reason for it that I could see.’

‘Well, he can’t seem to move,’ Daggett said worriedly. ‘One of you’d best go and fetch a physician.’

Then it was that Betsy Brand, staring down at Cleeve, recalled the man from the previous day, apparently shaken by the news of Long Ned’s death. And in a moment, she knew somehow that what was happening to the scene-man was identical to what had happened to Ned. Quickly she stepped forward.

‘Send a boy to Doctor Catlin’s house in Fire’s Reach Court,’ she said. ‘If he’s home, he’ll come at once.’

Betterton and Daggett looked at her, but knowing her neither would question her judgement. Betterton nodded to Joshua Small, who hurried off.

‘Tom!’ The stage manager brought his face close to Cleeve’s. ‘It’s Will Daggett … can you hear me?’

The scene-man was trembling. It was clear that something was terribly wrong with him, but none could guess the cause. Suddenly he whimpered. ‘My toes … I can’t feel ’em!’

A murmur went up from the watchers, as portly John Downes the prompter appeared. Kneeling down on the other side of Cleeve, he held a mug to his lips. ‘Take a mouthful, Tom,’ he said. ‘It’s good Nantes—’

But Cleeve’s only response was a groan. His arms and legs were twitching uncontrollably. ‘I’m sinking,’ he said, and threw a terrified look at Betterton. ‘For the love of God, sir, can’t you help me?’

The great actor, humble in the face of the man’s desperation, gritted his teeth. ‘In heaven’s name, is there nothing to be done?’ he asked Daggett.

‘It’s beyond me, sir,’ the man muttered. ‘I can only think he broke his back when he fell, or his neck.’

At that Cleeve rolled his eyes to meet Daggett’s. ‘Aye … the neck,’ he said in a whisper. And now the company watched in dismay, as all at once the man stopped moving.

‘His legs are stiff,’ Downes exclaimed. ‘His arms, too!’

Not knowing what else to do, Daggett slapped Cleeve’s cheeks. ‘Tom!’ He shouted, and shook the man by the shoulders. ‘Hold on, lad, the doctor’s on his way.’

But Cleeve did not seem to hear. His eyes no longer saw: the pupils were dilated, fixed on nothing. And as one, the watchers – from Louise the tiring-maid to the few actors who, like Betsy and Jane, yet remained – grew still, sensing the presence of death. As they gazed, Cleeve’s breathing slowed until it was too faint to detect, so that Daggett had to press his ear to the man’s chest. Then he sat up, and turned to Betterton with a grim expression. A silence fell.

The great actor bowed his head, and others followed suit. Downes the prompter got stiffly to his feet, looking shaken. One of the women sniffed. And to everyone’s surprise, a tear fell from gruff Will Daggett’s eye, and rolled down to his bristling moustache.

Twenty minutes later Doctor Tom Catlin hurried into the theatre, only to learn that for the second time in as many days, there was nothing he could do.

It was a subdued company who gathered in the empty auditorium a while later, to hear Betterton utter a few consoling words. Some had already left; for if truth be told, Tom Cleeve had not been liked by many. He was a close-mouthed fellow who seldom smiled, and was known to become pugnacious when drunk. Yet the death of any man was a loss, and the way in which he had met his end was a shock. The doormen and scene-men, standing in a solemn group, seemed stunned by the event. Finally, after dismissing the remainder of the company, Betterton turned to Tom Catlin, who still stood by.

‘Doctor, will you aid us? Can you make arrangements to have the body removed?’

‘I can.’ Catlin hesitated. ‘Is there a family?’

‘I believe so – wife and children both,’ Betterton answered, and his brows knitted. ‘It would also set my mind at rest, to know precisely why Cleeve died.’

‘I’ve given you my opinion, Mr Betterton,’ Catlin said quietly. ‘The man died from an asphyxia.’

‘But how?’ The other countered. ‘What brought it on?’

‘I’m not a surgeon.’ Catlin shrugged. ‘Perhaps someone more skilled than I should examine the corpse.’

‘Yet you are a friend,’ Betterton said, and turned to Betsy, who stood near. ‘At least you are Mistress Brand’s friend, and she has always spoken highly of you.’

Catlin made no reply, but glanced at Betsy, who had been burning to speak. She seized her chance.

‘Mr Betterton, there’s something you should know,’ she said. And quickly she told of Cleeve’s behaviour the day before, adding that the way he had died seemed very like the way Long Ned had met his end at the bagnio.

Betterton looked taken aback, but the doctor was nodding. ‘It’s most odd,’ he agreed. ‘I was the one called to the
hammam
when the man collapsed. He fell over quite suddenly, as Cleeve did, for no apparent cause. From what I’ve learned, his symptoms were similar.’

‘What are you implying, sir?’ Betterton asked sharply. ‘That there’s some pestilence abroad?’

‘I think not,’ Catlin replied. ‘Yet the more I turn the matter about, the more I believe something is amiss.’ He hesitated. ‘Were the two victims known to one another?’

‘They may have been.’ Betterton was frowning. ‘I dislike the way this moves, Doctor. Are you suggesting a more sinister explanation?’

‘I don’t know what to suggest, but I’ll find out what I can.’ Catlin turned to go, adding over his shoulder: ‘I’ll seek leave to examine the body, and speak with you again.’

But as he went he caught Betsy’s eye, and a look of understanding passed between them. And somehow she too knew that there was a link between these deaths, though its cause was hidden. She also sensed that it was important, and that it must be uncovered; and more, Mistress Betsy Brand wanted to be the one to uncover it.

The next morning Betsy was woken by Peg coming into her room with water for washing and a bowl of curds for her breakfast. She remained long enough to tell her that the Doctor had left the house already and that she was off to market, before stalking out.

Betsy sat up, as the memory of yesterday’s events flooded back. After a while she rose and began to dress, thinking of Betterton’s last words as she took leave of him outside the theatre. He had been walking to the Duke’s stairs to take a boat when Julius Hill hurried up to ask whether the Company would play the next afternoon, as usual.

‘Indeed we shall!’ Betterton had told the actor brusquely. ‘The best thing this company can do is to give an even better performance tomorrow than we did today!’ Then he had turned away from Hill, to gaze at the grey waters of the Thames. ‘In any case,’ he added, ‘the King himself may pay us a visit. We must remain on our mettle.’

So to everyone’s relief,
Macbeth
would take to the stage for the third time; and little trace would remain of Tom Cleeve, whose body was taken away to his parish of St John’s in Clerkenwell. Joshua Small, with a speed that surprised some, had already approached Will Daggett to suggest a replacement scene-man: his own younger brother.

It’s an ill wind indeed
, Betsy thought. In fact the only alteration in her routine was that Betterton had sent a link-boy with a message the previous night, asking her to come to the theatre in the morning. This was unusual, since no rehearsal had been called. So with curiosity aroused, she arrived at the Duke’s an hour later, to find a small group gathered in the scene-room.

Betterton was there, along with William Daggett, Downes the prompter and James Prout the dancing-master. There was someone else: a fat, unsmiling man in a brown coat and heavy boots. Then Betsy remembered: he was Gould, the dour constable of Farringdon Ward Without. It seemed the law was now taking an interest in Cleeve’s death.

‘Mistress Brand!’ Betterton greeted her. ‘I have a request to make of you.’ Taking her arm, he drew her aside. ‘It’s a somewhat delicate matter: I would like you to visit Tom Cleeve’s widow in Clerkenwell, on behalf of the Company.’ And when Betsy showed her surprise, he added: ‘No doubt she is in distress, as she’s likely in dire need. I’m desirous to send someone of tact and discretion.’

‘Perhaps a gift of money would be of best use to the woman,’ Betsy observed.

‘Indeed, and she shall have it.’ Betterton put a hand in the side pocket of his black coat, and brought out a purse.

‘Give her this with my blessing. I’ll send a man with you, for protection. It’s’ – he hesitated – ‘the district she lives in, is not one to be visited by a woman on her own.’

Betsy knew as well as anyone did that like many of the suburbs, Clerkenwell was a notorious haunt of prostitutes. But it occurred to her that in visiting Cleeve’s widow, she might learn something that had a bearing on his death. And indeed, Betterton’s next words showed that he had anticipated that.

‘Furthermore,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘if there’s anything you can find out that might help put an end to the rumours that are already springing up, I’d be grateful.’

‘What rumours are those?’ Betsy asked.

‘That there’s been foul play, carried out by someone with a grudge against the Duke’s Company.’ Betterton was frowning. ‘It’s well known that Ned Gowden, to give him his proper name, was once employed by me, as Tom Cleeve was. It’s probably nothing to be alarmed about, but …’ he shrugged. ‘As you know, there are some at the King’s Theatre who resent any success we have. Of course, I would not accuse Killigrew or any of his actors of anything unlawful. But they’re not above spreading falsehoods …’ he trailed off, then brightened. ‘I almost forgot. Doctor Catlin sent word to me a short while back: he’s got permission to look over Cleeve’s body. Perhaps he can discern something.’ He glanced towards the constable, who was watching them. ‘Now, I have matters to attend to. Will you do what I ask?’

With a nod, Betsy took the purse. And a short while later she was making her way through the narrow, crowded lanes north of Holborn, to emerge in Cowcross Street, Clerkenwell.

The man Betterton had sent with her as protector was the old scene-man, Silas Gunn. Betsy was relieved: she had half-expected it to be Joshua Small, who would have seized the opportunity to speak of Jane Rowe with her closest friend. Silas, by contrast, said little until the two of them entered Turnmill Street. Here, even at this hour, the trulls plied their trade; and now the old man startled Betsy by taking her arm.

‘There’s no need to panic, Silas,’ she told him, breaking into a smile. ‘I knew some of these women when they worked the streets near the old theatre. Unless, that is, you wish to pose as my
rum cull
?’

Silas blinked. Though his workaday world was the same as Betsy’s, his manners were those of a bygone age, before the Civil War, when the word ‘actress’ had not yet been heard in England; when rumours of the first King Charles’s French queen, Henrietta Maria, performing in a Court Masque had scandalized London society. With a look of embarrassment, he withdrew his arm and said: ‘I pray you, Mistress Brand, nought was further from my thoughts!’

But Betsy’s smile widened, and taking the old man’s arm again, she drew him close. ‘It was a joke,’ she told him. ‘And in truth, there’s none at the Duke’s I would rather have as my escort than you!’

The old man opened his mouth, then closed it. He did not speak again until the two of them had walked the length of the noisy, refuse-strewn street, past open doors where painted jilts lounged. Some laughed at the sight of Betsy Brand in her good sea-green cloak, leading an old man by the arm. But though one or two made lewd remarks, others recognized Betsy and greeted her. By the time they turned out of the lane, Silas was shaking his head.

‘Lord, Mistress,’ he muttered, ‘I’ll never hear the last, if word of this gets out!’

‘I quite understand,’ Betsy said, keeping her face straight. They had stopped at the entrance to a dim, narrow alleyway. ‘Now, if this is Cooper’s Court, I think we’re here.’

Gunn nodded. ‘ ’Tis Cooper’s. And according to Josh Small, Cleeve’s house is the farthest one.’

The two of them walked to a door at the end of the closed alley and knocked. For answer, there came the howling of a child, before the door creaked open and a blowsy, sallow-faced woman in a faded taffeta dress appeared. For a moment she and Betsy stared at one another, before recognition dawned on both.

‘Hannah?’ Betsy’s eyes widened. ‘Is it you?’

‘Betsy Brand.’ The other woman gazed at her, then lowered her eyes. ‘You’d best come in.’

They stood in Hannah’s small, dingy kitchen while chaos reigned about them. In one corner, a pair of tiny barefoot boys fought over a broken chair-leg, shrieking insults at each other; in another, a baby in a soiled smock howled at the top of its voice. What furniture there was sagged with age, though so little light came through the dirty window it was hard to see anything very clearly, which was perhaps a blessing. Sensing with relief that his presence was not required, Silas Gunn told Betsy he would wait outside. As the door closed behind him, Hannah Cleeve gestured with a listless movement towards the only serviceable chair. As Betsy sat down, Hannah picked up the wailing baby with one hand, loosened the top of her dress with the other and put the child to the breast. Whereupon Betsy explained her reason for coming, and brought out the money Betterton had given her.

She had not expected Hannah to show gratitude, but the woman did not even look relieved. She took the purse, hefted it in her free hand and shoved it in a pocket. Then she raised her eyes to meet Betsy’s.

‘So … you’ve worked with Tom these past weeks, and you never knew I was his wife?’ she said in a hard voice.

The room stank appallingly, but Betsy could bear it. What shocked her was the change in Hannah’s appearance. She had known her two years ago as Hannah Beck, one of the prettier trulls who worked the Rose Tavern, by the King’s Playhouse in Brydges Street. The Hannah she knew was loud-voiced and lively, as eager for a bawdy song as she was for a mug of mulled sack with the actors. Now….

‘I didn’t know, Hannah,’ Betsy told her. ‘Tom never spoke of you. In fact, now I think upon it, he never spoke about anything much.’

Hannah sniffed. The dark patches under her eyes spoke of a lack of sleep, while a yellowed bruise on one cheek told a more sinister tale.

‘I had to get him staggering drunk to do it,’ she said, and gave a grim smile. ‘Fetch him to the altar, I mean. See, I was carrying his child.’ She jerked her head towards the boys in the corner, who were still fighting. ‘What I didn’t know was, there’d be two of ’em.’

Betsy glanced at the boys: it was obvious now that they were twins. She smiled and indicated the baby. ‘And now, there are three.’

Hannah’s face clouded. ‘She’s not Tom’s,’ she muttered. ‘I still work the lanes now and then … half of what that buffle-headed sot earned at the playhouse, he spent in the tavern!’

A weariness seemed to come over the woman, whereupon Betsy got to her feet. ‘You sit,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I should go.’

Hannah did not argue, but sank down on the chair. The baby lifted its head, and quickly she put it to the other breast.

‘I’m glad of the money,’ she said after a moment. ‘Only I’d be obliged if you told no one of it. As far as folk round here know I’m penniless. That way, Tom’ll get a parish burial.’

Betsy nodded – then, quite suddenly, Hannah began to talk.

‘I don’t run into many theatre folk now,’ she said. ‘When I think back it seems they were good times, when the Duke’s was in Portugal Row by the Fields, and Nelly Gwyn was at the King’s. Now I hear she’s got her own house, even her own servants. Did you know that?’

‘I did,’ Betsy answered.

‘They told me there was a bit of a party,’ Hannah went on. ‘And Tom fell, cracked his skull.’ She grimaced. ‘Was he soused?’

‘I really can’t say,’ Betsy said after a moment. ‘The room was crowded … I didn’t see him fall.’

‘But you saw him die.’

Hannah’s tone was sharp. Betsy returned her gaze and nodded. ‘It was quick. I’m sure he didn’t feel much pain.’

But Hannah dismissed that impatiently. ‘What I’m asking you, Betsy, is this: is there something they’re not telling me?’

‘Why should there be?’

‘Because for the past week – maybe longer – Tom was scared witless, that’s why!’

Betsy felt her pulse quicken. ‘Scared of what?’

‘Of who, more like,’ Hannah said. ‘That’s what I’d like to know. Some rook or biter he’d cheated, or owed money to – I don’t know what lay behind it, and I don’t care. But if he died by another’s hand there’s men I can call upon, would slit the devil’s throat if I asked them to!’

‘Whatever Tom died of, it wasn’t by any means I could see,’ Betsy told her. ‘He was among his fellows when he keeled over. There were plenty who witnessed it.’

‘Well, it seems mighty strange to me,’ Hannah said. ‘Of late, ’twas like he was looking over his shoulder – when he wasn’t sousing himself. Jumpy as a hare, too. The night before he died he was gibbering like a bedlam fool. I couldn’t get a scrap of sense out of him. He even talked about doing a flit, to the Bermudas.’

The baby shifted on her lap, and Hannah glanced down. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time he’d fetched up in that warren,’ she muttered. ‘He had a foggy past behind him, did Tom Cleeve.’ Looking up at Betsy, she added: ‘Did you know ’twas me got him that place at the Duke’s new theatre? First honest job he’d had in years!’

Betsy shook her head.

‘Aye, even if I had to lift my skirts for free, to seal the bargain,’ Hannah said in a harsh voice. ‘But it paid off: at least we had a wage coming in … and now, this!’

She was a bitter woman. But Betsy would not summon words of comfort, for she knew how empty they would seem. In any case, it seemed Hannah had more to say.

‘So you take my meaning, mistress,’ she went on. ‘If you hear of anyone who was dogging Tom, I’d be obliged if you’d send word to me.’

In her mind, Betsy had a clear picture of Tom Cleeve, standing by the scene-room door staring after James Prout, and looking badly shaken by the news of Long Ned’s death.

‘I’ll help you any way I can, Hannah,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Yet you make me curious: you say Tom seemed terror-stricken, the day before he died?’

Hannah gave a nod. ‘It’s no use asking why, for I don’t know. Whatever he was blathering about made no sense.’

‘What was he blathering about?’

‘Ned Gowden,’ Hannah replied, and frowned. ‘You remember Long Ned?’ When Betsy gave a nod, she added: ‘That’s why I knew ’twas all gibber, for he hadn’t set eyes on that cove in years.’

‘Then they knew each other?’ Betsy asked.

‘Knew each other? They were thick as thieves at one time,’ Hannah told her. ‘And thieving’s the right word: what those two got up to don’t bear thinking about!’

Clearly Hannah had not yet heard of Long Ned’s death. Then it was hardly a surprise, stuck here as she was with her children. Fashionable Covent Garden may have been only a mile away, but it seemed like another country. Betsy decided to break the news.

‘Long Ned died,’ she said.

Hannah jerked as if she had been struck. ‘When?’

‘Two days ago, in the bathhouse in Covent Garden. He was working there.’

The other stared at her. ‘I like not the sound of it,’ she said, becoming agitated. ‘I thought ’twas nothing, Tom babbling about Ned, I mean. He spoke of the Fire, too; but who doesn’t talk of that, or dream of it?’

The baby had finished feeding and rolled her head sleepily. Hannah got heavily to her feet, carried the child to a corner of the room and laid her down. The twins had stopped fighting, and were looking at her expectantly.

‘I better feed these, too,’ she said.

Betsy moved towards the door. She had much to think upon; but when she turned to make her farewell, Hannah was gazing levelly at her. ‘I thank you for coming here,’ she said. ‘And if there’s more to tell, I’d be glad to hear it … I mean, from you.’ She paused. ‘You’re one of the few I’d trust.’